Bittersweet: A Tale of Two Tragedies
by tthalia
Summary: After finally coming to terms with her inevitable death, Gabriella is at peace with her short-cut future. That is, until one self-sacrificing Troy Bolton reappears and ruins everything. Damn him and his impeccably bad timing.


A/N: so, just a quickie 5-shot, I own nothing! hm, and side note, 'cause of pending graduations and college exams, my betas (understandably) are partially MIA... if anyone's interested in offering a little input on a story or two, I'd really appreciate it -- PM meeee :)

and as always, reviews are aaawweesssommmeee.**

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PROLUGE  
**_Good News Comes In Small Packages_

"_When I'm feeling weak  
And my pain walks down a one way street_…"

The room was languid and cold. But most of all, it was sticky. The atrociously sterile scene was coated in a thick, filmy embalmment that seemed to lace the air with a white fog. And while it made her vision blurry and her head a little fuzzier than usual, the unclear room was the least of her worries.

She began to notice, not but an hour ago, that everything was slowly fading. One by one, simple objects were disappearing from her sight.

The 'Get Well' card on the counter adjacent from her bed was the first to vanish. After that went the jar of cotton balls. Merely minutes ensuing, the hazardous waste bin dissolved into thin air. And just recently had the digital TV, projecting channels only available after a prior payment, melted into the dimly lit darkness.

Believing strongly in fate and the omens offered at hand, she took each of these abrupt inanimate exits as a sign.

A sign that her time was up.

The pain, which for the last day had completely ravaged her soul, was dispersing. The tightening, awful fire raging in her chest, brought on by slowly collapsing lungs, was also beginning to fade away with the lifeless items.

She wasn't afraid though, not in the least. She'd had time, quite a long time at that, to prepare herself for this exact moment. Death was something she'd settled on; understanding it would ease more than it would rustle.

But as her eyes wandered vacantly around the white yet utterly repulsive gray room, fear boiled in her veins like an overheated batch of noodles.

There was no one here. No one with her to hold her hand, whisper comforting words of solace.

She was going to die alone.

Without him, without her mother, without… _anyone_.

Then suddenly, as if prayers she had not prayed were answered, the door swung open with such a force that wind swam around the room like a lost fish, lifting the curtains and lone tendrils of her hair in unison. Her heart thudded in her chest, anticipating his gorgeous face.

Disappointment ate at her insides as a doctor, whose face was statuesque in awe, dove into the room arms first, his eyes wide with angst as he stumbled mercilessly on the empty tiled floor.

"Miss Montez, we—" He stuttered with the words. She took it has another bad sign. What doctor _stuttered_? "We have a donor!" He practically screamed the words, making her ears pierce with pain.

She choked momentarily.

"Wh-what?"

Nurses and orderlies had eagerly drifted into the room, pulling her off of machines, gripping the poles of IV's, while managing to raise the gates surrounding her bed.

"You're going to live! We—we have a donor."

The nurses, the orderlies, and the doctor too, were pushing her dismal bed halfway through the hall when her mother appeared by her side. An uncomfortable feeling tickled the lining of her stomach when she realized her mother's face wasn't nearly as ecstatic as she knew it should be.

Something was wrong.

"Sweetheart, they found you a donor!"

She was at the end of the list. There were nearly thirty people ahead of her. It didn't add up.

"W-who? How?" She couldn't understand how her luck had suddenly turned. Seconds from death, the Grim Reaper was practically touching her hand, and now she was going to live? Certainly a turn of events.

The woman who had raised her, the single person who had pledged to keep her illness a secret, approached her bed, her motherly warmth depressingly radiating from her flat smile.

"Don't worry about that now, dear," she hummed, noticeably dodging her daughter's persecuting questions, "You're going to live. That's all that matters for now."

_For now?_


End file.
